


An Incompetent Guide to Adulting

by Essie_Cat



Series: Albus and Scorpius are 'Very Platonic' [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: Body Image, Chubby Albus, Established Relationship, Fluff, Insecurity, M/M, Not Harry Potter and the Cursed Child Compliant, Post-Hogwarts, Weight Gain, Weight Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:35:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26265079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Essie_Cat/pseuds/Essie_Cat
Summary: For once in his life, Albus feels like he’s not just a ball of anxiety held together by biscuits and sarcasm. Things might actually be goingwellfor him.So, naturally, it’s Scorpius’s turn to leap head first into a quarter-life crisis.Featuring stress-baking, awkward flirting, an old-school Slytherin wedding, and drinking tea like it's the answer to everything.
Relationships: Scorpius Malfoy/Albus Severus Potter
Series: Albus and Scorpius are 'Very Platonic' [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1858006
Comments: 20
Kudos: 117





	1. Stress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scorpius is definitely not worried about his degree. Albus does his best in unfamiliar situations.

Albus comes home from work to find a caramelised sugar smell wafting through the air and three loaves of banana bread sitting on the side in the kitchen. Scorpius appears on the stairs, wearing teal sweatpants and an oversized black jumper of Albus’s and looking a little harassed. 

His hair is mint green, which it definitely wasn’t this morning. 

‘Love the hair,’ Albus says, a little perturbed, trying to gauge the situation. ‘The cake smells nice.’

‘You should have some. It’s delicious,’ Scorpius says, somewhat aggressively. ‘Best I’ve ever made. Definitely a day well spent.’ 

‘Er –’

And before Albus has even taken off his cloak, he finds himself accepting an enormous piece of banana bread and assuring Scorpius it is, in fact, delicious, while Scorpius watches him in a positively hawk-like manner, all while feeling that the whole thing might be some sort of trick. 

‘You feeling okay?’ he asks tentatively, attempting to refuse the second piece of cake Scorpius seems determined to force on him before he’s even finished the first one. 

‘Peachy,’ Scorpius insists, stalking back into the kitchen to retrieve a fourth tin of banana bread from the oven.

The previous day, a letter had arrived for Albus from Scorpius’s flatmates, Grace and Zabini. 

_Sending Malfoy your way. You know how to handle him. Don’t mention you-know-what. Best of luck._

Privately, he’d rolled his eyes and thought they were overreacting just a bit. Sure, Scorpius was having a weird week, but he’d just handed in his thesis and sat his final exams, and was anxiously – or, not at all anxiously, as he kept reminding everyone – awaiting his results. How hard could it be to cut him a bit of slack?

But as Albus reassures Scorpius that four loaves is _definitely_ the optimal amount of banana bread to make and a fifth one would just be overkill, he’s starting to think Grace and Zabini may have had a point. 

The next morning, Albus tugs on his work robes and pads downstairs in a state of mild apprehension. He can hear Scorpius clattering around already. He’s in the kitchen, still in his pyjamas, hands on his hips as he squints down at a copy of _The Cleaner’s Compendium_ that Albus’s grandma had optimistically given him when he moved here and which, truth be told, he’s barely opened in three years. 

‘Morning,’ Albus says cautiously, grabbing his lunch from the fridge and an apple from the fruit bowl. 

‘Just a bit of spring cleaning,’ Scorpius announces, answering a question Albus hadn’t really asked, waving a hand at the rag rubbing circles of grime across the window over the sink and the mop spinning in a jerky little dance at the far end of the room. 

‘Right. Thank you? I mean, I really appreciate it, but you know you don’t have to do anything –’

‘I’ll sort out the back garden too,’ Scorpius adds. ‘The gate needs fixing. Re-pot a few of the plants. You’ve really been neglecting the begonias, Al.’ 

Albus clears his throat and says weakly, ‘Well, have a nice day,’ before heading to work and wondering what state he’ll find Scorpius – and his house and garden – in when he returns.

When Albus wakes up for the third day in a row to find Scorpius’s side of the bed empty, he’s forced to conclude that his ‘ignore it and it’ll be fine’ policy isn’t working out that well. He sits up, rubs the sleep out of his eyes, grabs his glasses from the bedside table and reluctantly gets out of bed. 

Downstairs in the living room, Scorpius has stripped the cushion covers off the sofa and appears to be cleaning them. Or, attempting to. Albus stands in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, blinking sleepily as Scorpius mutters charms at a strip of fabric as though his life depends on it.

‘You okay there?’ he asks eventually. 

‘Do you have any idea how often you’re meant to clean upholstery like this?’ Scorpius demands, gesturing somewhat wildly at the couch before him.

‘Um. No?’

‘When’s the last time you washed these? Have they ever been washed?’ 

Albus stares at him.

‘You’re meant to be the responsible one here, Al. You’re meant to remember about washing cushions. What sort of mess will we be in if _I’m_ the one who’s meant to remember stuff like that? What if –’

‘Scorpius.’ Albus places firm hands on his broad shoulders. ‘It’s seven a.m. On a Sunday. Please go back to bed. I’m going to put the kettle on. All right?’

‘But –’

_‘All right?’_

Scorpius narrows his eyes, but then he sighs and obediently slinks away upstairs, leaving Albus’s living room covered in stray sofa cushions.

Five minutes later, when Albus returns to the bedroom with a mug of tea steaming in each hand, Scorpius is sitting up in bed and looks marginally more relaxed. 

‘So there’s a chance I had the dream again.’ 

‘Oh?’ Albus says, sipping his tea (English breakfast, nothing fancy, because Scorpius wouldn’t drink it otherwise). 

Telling Scorpius that dreaming about failing his degree is not the same as actually failing it isn’t going to get him anywhere. Rationally, Scorpius is aware that he hasn’t become a seer overnight and isn’t prophesying his own academic doom. 

‘What if they hate my thesis and think it’s terrible? What if it _is_ terrible, objectively? This is the only proper thing I’ve done since Hogwarts. I have _no_ marketable skills. I’m never going to get a job. What if the past four years have been for _nothing_ –’

‘Have a biscuit,’ Albus interrupts, thrusting a pack of chocolate digestives at him. 

Scorpius takes a bite of one and attempts to talk through it, but Albus speaks over him.

He isn’t very practised at this. Of the pair of them, it’s usually Scorpius talking sense into Albus after he’s got himself worked up over something or other. Scorpius is generally much more laid-back, and it takes something serious to make him flap. So Albus tries to channel his inner Scorpius and say the right words that will return his boyfriend to a state of semi-calm. 

He reminds Scorpius that he is a capable – nay, _talented_ student and all round excellent human being. He’s damned good at what he does. He knows more about wandlore and obscure twelfth century wandmakers than it should be possible for any human to know. He’s a Ravenclaw through and through. (And also, Scorpius’s supervisor had been very supportive of his work and would probably have given him more of a heads up if he was on track to completely fail his degree.) 

By the time the mugs of tea are empty, Scorpius is a little cheerier, has devoured half the packet of biscuits, and is willing to acknowledge that, perhaps, panic-cleaning early on a Sunday morning wasn’t the best way to approach life’s problems. 

Whereas shuffling back under the blankets, curling himself around Albus and letting Albus pet his hair? That might be a more enjoyable coping mechanism, all in all.

*

‘So, how’s Malfoy holding up?’ Molly asks, as they dodge a large puddle on the path. Cicero the boxer-collie mix – a recent addition to Molly’s life – happily bounds right through it, wagging his tail and casting murky water in spurts around him. ‘Grace says he was cleaning everything in their flat, except he’s terrible with household spells, so she had to go around cleaning up after his cleaning.’

‘He’s fine,’ Albus says, a little high-pitched, as though Scorpius hadn’t just started cleaning things in Albus’s house, too, and producing enormous amounts of baked goods, and Albus had decided his only option was to find it charming.

Albus had tried to persuade him to come on this walk with Molly and Cicero, but Scorpius had purchased an obscene number of avocados and was apparently going to use them to make brownies, and Albus hadn’t had the will to argue.

‘The idea of stressed Scorpius is a bit unnerving,’ Molly says. ‘He’s the mellow one. You can’t both be highly-strung.’

‘I am not _highly-strung,’_ Albus begins, indignant, but Molly shoots him such an amused look that he swallows the rest of his sentence. 

‘You’re a cat,’ she says matter-of-factly, ‘and he’s a puppy.’

Albus stares at her, but apparently she doesn’t feel the need to qualify her statement any further, instead tugging Cicero away from a combative-looking chihuahua across the path. They’re on their preferred route along the River Ouse, heading towards Rowntree Park, and there are plenty of other canines for Cicero to try and befriend, and even one guy with a couple of ferrets on leads. There are also squirrels to be chased, puddles to be jumped into and piles of muddy leaves to sniff, despite all of Molly’s commands to the contrary. 

Albus pulls his cloak a little more tightly around himself. There’s something he’s been wanting to talk about with Molly, because he’s pretty sure he’s never made a serious life decision without consulting her first, and now seems like a good opportunity. But suddenly he feels a little silly bringing it up.

‘Cats and puppies can cohabit well enough, can’t they?’ he says breezily. ‘If they’re used to each other. You know, if you raise them together, and if you train them to –’

‘I suspect this is going somewhere, Albus.’

‘So I was thinking of asking Scorpius to move in with me,’ Albus clarifies. 

He’s been thinking about it for a while. Scorpius’s clothes are in the wardrobe, his shampoo in the shower, his brand of coffee on the side in the kitchen. The flat he shares with Grace and Zabini in London is impractically small. He already stays at Albus’s house in York a few nights a week. It doesn’t seem like too much of a leap, really.

‘Oh,’ Molly says. He glances at her. She might actually be smiling.

‘Oh?’ 

‘You know I don’t approve of emotion,’ Molly says briskly, ‘but that is rather exciting. Good for you, Albus.’

‘You don’t think it’s a bad idea?’

‘Why would I?’

‘I can usually rely on you to point out the flaws in a plan.’

Molly raises her chin. ‘I shall take that as a compliment. Cicero, _no,’_ she barks, stumbling forwards as Cicero makes a mad dash for the river.

*

Albus hangs his cloak in the hallway and is mildly reassured that he can’t see Scorpius anywhere downstairs. That rules out a few of his favourite cleaning spots. 

‘Scorpius?’ he calls to the empty rooms. There’s a chance he’s gone home. Though there’s also a chance that Grace and Zabini would send him right back to Albus again. 

He heads upstairs and, in his bedroom, sees Scorpius flopped down on the bed. A little tentatively, as one might approach an animal that’s easily spooked, Albus sits down on the edge of the bed.

‘How was your walk?’ Scorpius asks, propping himself up on his elbows to look at Albus. 

‘Good. Just went down by the river. Cicero was on form. He might be the only creature on earth who doesn’t instinctively obey Molly. It’s amazing.’

He looks down at Scorpius, who gazes up at him with his pretty grey eyes. Albus can’t quite work out his expression. He wonders if the I-am-an-academic-failure dream has been attacking him in his waking moments, too.

‘Everything … er … everything okay here?’

Scorpius lets his head flop back down onto the bed and says ruefully, ‘There’s a chance my jeans don’t fit.’

Albus glances down at his lower half. ‘What? These?’ He tugs at the belt loop of the jeans Scorpius is wearing. The button is fastened and the zip is all the way up, which is more success than Albus has with some of his jeans, sometimes. But now Albus looks closer, they do look rather tight, even while he’s lying down, digging in at his hips and giving him the slightest suggestion of a muffin top, which isn’t something Albus ever imagined he would see on Scorpius.

Scorpius is _hot._ Obviously Albus thinks this – believes it rather vehemently, in fact – but Scorpius is generally attractive enough in a conventional enough way that a lot of other, less biased people definitely think this too. 

For one thing, Scorpius is just genetically blessed – Albus has seen his father and his grandmother (not to mention various portraits of other Malfoys from across the centuries), and at the risk of sounding creepy, that is one hell of a gene pool. But for another, Scorpius is one of those strange people who actually _enjoys_ working out, who thinks that swimming for an hour before breakfast is a fantastic way to start the day and who looked ecstatic when Zabini asked if anyone fancied joining a spin class with him. 

(Grace had looked a little green at the suggestion. Albus had assumed the question was not directed at him. Molly had earnestly recommended her own spin instructor, declaring that Nathaniel was ‘a complete tyrant, but in a good way’.)

He’s got a swimmer’s broad shoulders and narrow waist, arms with a nice amount of definition, and strong thighs that even more loosely cut trousers can’t seem to resist showing off. And even in these jeans that seem to be causing him a certain amount of discomfort, he looks impossibly hot. But Albus endeavours to stay on track and focus on the matter at hand.

‘Technically, they do fit,’ he says noncommittally.

Scorpius raises an eyebrow. ‘I don’t think I should wear clothes on a technicality, Al.’ 

He stands up, shucks the jeans off and stands in his boxers, checking the label in the waistband for the size. 

‘Do you want me to stretch them for you? I’m, er, something of an expert.’ Albus twirls his wand in one hand, pats his own ample stomach with the other. ‘Or we can go shopping tomorrow, if you like? Get you some new ones.’

‘Sure.’

Albus watches him. This is a decidedly unfamiliar situation for the pair of them. Albus is the one who outgrows his clothes and gets stressed about his weight. Which, in his defence, hasn’t happened much lately. Partly because Scorpius is so good at reassuring him when he does get stressed about something. So it’s important that Albus gets this right, now, for him. 

But he also can’t tell whether this is _really_ about the jeans. He suspects it isn’t. 

Either way, he determines that the best approach is to stand up, take the jeans out of Scorpius’s hands and to kiss him. His hands sneak up Scorpius’s t-shirt, resting gently on either side of his waist. Scorpius makes a brief sound of protest, as if keen to prove he isn’t so cliché as to be distracted by a kiss, but he leans into it easily enough, resting his hands on Albus’s stomach where it pushes between them.

Scorpius touches Albus’s belly a lot. After a year of dating, Albus is almost used to this sort of thing. Almost. It’s a stark contrast to everyone else Albus has ever dated, who were, without exception, very keen to ignore the fact he has a gut and love handles and he’s on his way to a proper double chin and all the rest of it. 

It’s still mind-blowing to him sometimes that Scorpius will tell him he looks fantastic as though it’s the most obvious truth in the world, and that Albus can actually bring himself to believe it, sometimes, when the words come from Scorpius. There’s no _You look good, but_ or _Despite_ or _Even though_ with him. It’s just _You look great, Al._ No caveats. 

Glancing down at Scorpius’s hands on his midsection, Albus decides to risk a joke. ‘Is this me having a bad influence on you?’

Scorpius gives Albus’s midriff an affectionate rub. ‘Maybe. Git. But it’s also too many late nights in the library and skipping the gym and the fact that Marya’s pastries are just _right there_ at work all the time.’

Scorpius’s boss does make exceptionally delicious pastries. Albus is rather partial to the pecan and apricot knots. And the cinnamon sugar doughnuts. And the Victoria sponge isn’t bad either.

‘Am I going to have to put you on a diet?’ Albus raises an eyebrow, teasing. ‘Bit of a role reversal, isn’t it?’

‘Like I’ve ever tried to put you on a diet,’ Scorpius says, his cheeks going a little pink. ‘You know I wouldn’t.’ 

And just like that, Scorpius seems on his way back to his usual cheery self. He pulls on some sweatpants and cracks a joke about borrowing Albus’s clothes (which Albus is forced to point out he does already, all the time, without permission). Albus pats himself on the back for handling the situation in a suitably serious manner (to show he appreciates that Scorpius’s feelings are valid) and yet not too serious a manner (to emphasise that this really isn’t a big deal). 

But then ten minutes later they’re in the kitchen, Albus checking the sell-by date on some mackerel that’s been sitting in the fridge a while, and suddenly Scorpius says, ‘You don’t mind, right?’

‘What?’ Albus says absently, deeming the mackerel to be edible but realising the milk in the door looks a little suspect. He picks it up and sniffs it cautiously.

‘You don’t mind that I’ve… You don’t mind how I look?’

Albus looks up from the milk. ‘How you – what? Are you serious?’ 

Alarmingly, Scorpius’s expression does actually suggest he might be serious. He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed over his chest, looking about as small and sheepish as his broad-shouldered six-foot self could get.

‘Of course I like the way you look. Of _course.’_ He sets the milk down, closes the fridge door and pulls Scorpius towards him. 

Truth be told, Albus probably compliments Scorpius on his appearance much less than Scorpius compliments him. It’s been this way since the start. For one thing, Scorpius is the romantic of the pair of them and more likely to come out with sweet comments in general, whereas Albus retreats into sarcasm whenever possible. 

For another, Scorpius is so obviously attractive that it seems almost rude to point it out. He would never want Scorpius to think that he’s _only_ interested in him for the whole face-of-an-angel, body-of-a-Greek-hero thing he’s got going on. It’s a perk, certainly, but it’s far from the only reason that Albus’s heart – soppy old thing that it is – gives a little flutter whenever Scorpius walks into a room.

There are still moments, even a year on, where it feels to Albus like the universe must surely be playing some sort of trick on him. Because him snagging a boyfriend who looks as incredible as Scorpius does – who is adorably goofy and a massive history nerd and who throws himself into everything he does with an infectious, boundless enthusiasm – and who somehow thinks that _Albus_ is something to write home about? That just seems too unlikely.

And Albus still doesn’t think this is really about his weight or about the jeans. But if there’s any part of it that is – if there’s any part of Scorpius that is genuinely unsure about how Albus feels – then Albus really needs to rectify that immediately.

‘Scorpius,’ he says, ‘you look amazing. Obviously you do. Okay, so you’ve gained a bit of weight – which is sort of _my_ thing, and maybe I should feel threatened that you’re encroaching on my territory?’ That earns him a quick quirk of the lips from Scorpius. ‘But you know it’s not much, don’t you? Not much _at all.’_

Until witnessing the jeans situation, Albus hadn’t really noticed Scorpius looked any different. (Perhaps Albus is just unobservant. But noticing people’s weight is Scorpius’s little predilection, not his.) 

He barely does look different. His waist is a tiny bit thicker, Albus supposes, now that he’s looking, now that Scorpius is forcing him to think about it. But he certainly isn’t giving Albus a run for his money, or anything. 

‘And even if it was,’ he continues, ‘that would be okay. You do know that, right?’ he asks, because if he’s been giving off the impression that he’s only interested in Scorpius for his abs, then this relationship probably isn’t going as well as Albus had thought it was. 

‘Yeah,’ Scorpius says, a little too heartily. ‘I just thought I should check. We all know you’re a shallow prick, Al.’

Albus rolls his eyes. ‘Such a charmer.’

Scorpius grins, and it looks enough like his usual bright-eyed, lights-up-his-whole-face grin that Albus is reassured. He leans forward to give Albus a quick kiss and says, ‘Gonna go for a run.’

‘Okay. Run fast. Or, far. Or, um, whatever kind of running you enjoy doing.’

*

When Scorpius gets back from his run, Albus is waiting for him in the living room. Not that he’s planned this, or anything. He’s great at spontaneity. Feels really easy and natural. Doesn’t make him stressed at all. 

He puts down his book, fixes his gaze on Scorpius and throws him what he’s confident is a cool, casual and maybe even _suave_ sort of look. 

‘You look sweaty,’ he informs him.

‘Funny, that.’ Scorpius summons a glass of water and takes several large gulps, running a hand through his green hair. He glances at Albus, a little suspicious, when he realises Albus is still watching him. ‘Are you all right?’

Albus suggests, ‘You could use a shower.’

‘Gee, thanks.’

‘I, too, could use a shower.’ 

Scorpius raises an eyebrow. He sets down his glass of water.

‘I think there’s a solution that would be great for my water bill _and_ for the environment.’

‘Are you trying to seduce me, Potter?’

‘Excuse me, I _am_ seducing you. Very successfully.’

The corners of Scorpius’s mouth twitch. ‘Are you sure? I seem to have missed that part.’

Albus slips his arms around Scorpius’s neck and Scorpius’s hands rest, familiar and comfortable, on Albus’s hips. He gives the softness there a gentle squeeze. Albus takes a firmer hold of Scorpius’s shoulders and directs him so he’s pushed back against the wall, meeting his lips in a messy, insistent kiss. 

Scorpius makes throaty little grunts of appreciation, tugging Albus’s hips more firmly towards him. He nudges the hem of Albus’s t-shirt up until it sits under his soft chest and Scorpius can run his hands over the pale, stretchmarked expanse of Albus’s belly the way he likes. A way that once would have made Albus cringe and start babbling disclaimers about _too many mince pies at Christmas_ or _you should start dragging me to the gym with you, huh._ A way that now he recognises as an easy show of affection from Scorpius, something he doesn’t think twice about doing, something he just _wants_ in the same way that Albus wants to touch him in all his lean, lithe, preternatural gorgeousness. 

‘Scorpius,’ Albus mutters, ‘you look so fucking good.’

He can feel Scorpius’s smile against his lips. ‘Ditto.’

‘And I mostly tolerate you, you know.’

‘I mostly tolerate you, too.’

‘So – so we’re going upstairs, yeah?’ 

‘ _Fuck_ yes.’

*

‘So congratulations are in order, I take it?’ Molly says matter-of-factly, as Albus tries to stop himself vibrating with tension, thinking he might actually implode if Scorpius doesn’t say something soon.

Scorpius is still staring down at the scroll of parchment in his hands as though struggling to comprehend its contents. Albus peers over his shoulder and breathes a sigh of relief.

‘First class degree in History of Magic and Wandlore. Not too shabby, Malfoy.’

He wraps his arms around Scorpius’s waist for a celebratory hug, while Scorpius allows himself a smile.

‘Well thank fuck for that,’ he finally says. ‘I – I was a bit nervous about it all, just for a moment there.’

‘You were?’ Albus asks, all innocence. 

Scorpius elbows him. ‘ _Excuse_ me. We’re all allowed to be stressed every now and then. Remember that week with the spaniel in the floo system? You were unbearable. I’m entitled to a bit of payback.’

‘You were truly awful,’ Molly agrees helpfully.

‘It took my entire team to catch it,’ Albus says, not at all shrill and high-pitched at the memory. ‘It could have died. The paperwork alone –’

Molly pats him on the shoulder in a way that means _please shut up, Albus._

Right. This is not a moment for Albus and the spaniel. This is very much Scorpius’s moment. So he says, ‘I mean, this just confirms that you’re a genius, which we all knew all along, but still. Cup of tea to celebrate? And maybe actual dinner and drinks tonight?’

Scorpius beams, grabbing a quill and parchment so he can inform Grace and Zabini. 

‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ Albus says. ‘Anyone for banana bread? Or an avocado brownie? They’re nicer than they sound. I’ve got all sorts in my kitchen right now. No idea where it all came from...’

‘ _Al,’_ Scorpius protests, but he’s grinning broadly, his smile firmly in place for the rest of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So … apparently I’m not done with this verse. I couldn’t resist giving Albus some personal growth and throwing a bit of insecurity at Scorpius for once. 
> 
> This is basically going to be three chapters of Albus and Scorpius being unfailingly supportive of each other, because that's my kink, apparently.
> 
> Anyway, if you've made it this far, thanks for reading!


	2. Money

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scorpius and Zabini have a family situation. Albus and Scorpius try to communicate.

‘So, we have some news,’ Scorpius says, hands clutched in front of him, excessively sombre.

‘Big news,’ Zabini intones. ‘It’s only right that we break it to you in person.’

Albus and Grace, perched together on the couch in the flat’s cramped living room, exchange glances. Scorpius and Zabini are standing before them with the air of pallbearers at a particularly miserable funeral, their grim dispositions somewhat at odds with Scorpius’s mint green hair and the flared aubergine trousers Zabini is sporting.

‘Are you breaking up with us?’ Grace asks, raising an eyebrow at her boyfriend.

‘And running off with each other?’ Albus asks, raising an eyebrow at his.

‘They’re getting married,’ Scorpius says, as though this is the worst thing ever to happen to anyone. 

‘Oh!’ Grace squeals. ‘That’s lovely.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Zabini says dismissively. ‘But it … it also means …’ He throws Scorpius a pained look. 

‘It means we’re going to be _related,’_ Scorpius says. ‘Me and Zabini. God. Can you imagine.’

Albus exchanges another glance with Grace, whose dramatic eye-roll says it all. Zabini’s dad Blaise and Scorpius’s Aunt Daphne have been dating on and off for the past few years – they were at Hogwarts together, and apparently the deep-rooted instinct to date one’s former classmates is multi-generational – and Zabini and Scorpius have mutually agreed to be bewildered but generally supportive of the situation. 

‘You’ll be related very tenuously,’ Albus points out. ‘You’ll be – what? Step-cousins?’

‘It’s all so incestuous,’ Zabini complains. 

‘Only if you and Scorpius start sleeping together,’ Grace says reasonably. ‘Which would still be perfectly legal.’

‘But not encouraged,’ Albus adds.

Scorpius and Zabini glance at each other and shudder.

Grace says, with genuine concern, ‘You didn’t react like this when they told you, did you?’

‘Of course not,’ Scorpius bristles. ‘And we’re happy for them, obviously. But it’s still weird.’

‘It’s also a month from now,’ Zabini says. ‘Which I’m sure will be plenty of time. How hard can it be to plan a wedding?’

*

On their next trip to the Griffin’s Roost, the cheerful café where Scorpius works, Scorpius brings Albus a goat’s cheese panini and Molly a Caesar salad. He times his lunch break so he can join them and tucks into his own plate of quiche (salmon and dill).

Albus knows he’s wearing his new jeans – a size up from his old pair – and from the enthusiastic way he’s attacking the quiche, and the delicious looking slice of tiffin he’s chosen to follow, it looks like he isn’t bothered about getting back into his old ones. Albus is just pleased that his insecurity over the situation went out of the window when his degree results came in.

In between mouthfuls of quiche, Scorpius announces, ‘I think my father’s having a midlife crisis.’

Albus wonders, somewhat uncharitably, if Scorpius is projecting. But he listens politely as Scorpius continues, ‘He’s shaved off his goatee – which he has had forever, I mean literally as long as I can remember – and he’s bought himself a ridiculous new broomstick that he’s twenty years too old for, and he’s talking about _trying new things,_ and he wants to redecorate the Manor. The last one’ll never happen, obviously, as long as Grandmother has anything to do with it, but still. Weird, right?’

‘I suppose,’ Albus agrees, and Molly shrugs.

‘I mean, are _your_ parents doing any of those things?’

‘My mum was a professional Quidditch player,’ Albus points out. ‘She has a ridiculous number of ridiculous broomsticks. And neither of them have a goatee to shave off. Who does, in this day and age?’

‘My mum is a Muggle,’ Molly says. ‘And my dad has always been forty-nine years old, spiritually speaking, so he loves being middle-aged.’ 

‘It’s definitely weird,’ Scorpius mutters. ‘But at least Father’s confirmed he’ll be at the wedding. Grandmother went on and on about it, and she’s not even invited.’ 

‘Ten sickles she turns up anyway,’ Albus says. 

‘What did they say about Gringotts?’ Molly asks. 

Since Scorpius’s degree wrapped up, he’s been dutifully applying to jobs left, right and centre. He’s a little vague about what he actually wants to do with his life, but he’s been having careers advice sessions with Molly. She, naturally, has known what she wanted for her life since she was nine years old, and has an aggressively clear, obnoxiously detailed plan for the next ten years. 

Scorpius, who Albus knows is slightly afraid of Molly even after all this time, has absorbed all her advice like the good little Ravenclaw he is. And things seem to be paying off, as he’s snagged a job offer from Gringotts Bank, which Molly is taking as a personal victory. 

It’s a role in Gringotts’ internal auditing team, which isn’t, perhaps, the most glamorous area one could hope for. But speaking from his position in the Department of Magical Transportation (Floo Network Regulation), Albus personally feels that glamour is sometimes overrated. 

‘I didn’t mention it.’ Scorpius waves his fork vaguely, scattering bits of quiche over the table and hastily clearing them up with his wand. ‘Haven’t decided about it yet. I’ve got those other interviews. But if I told my grandmother, that would be it. I’d have to take it or she’d disown me.’

‘Well, at least you know disinheritance is an option,’ Albus says seriously, and Molly whacks him with her newspaper across the table.

*

When Albus finds himself in an expensive boutique in Edinburgh watching Daphne Greengrass try on wedding dresses, it’s safe to say he’s not entirely sure how he found himself in this position.

‘I think I might be a bridesmaid,’ Scorpius had said seriously when he’d first mentioned that Daphne had asked him to go dress shopping with her. ‘I know I’m walking her down the aisle, but I’m also helping deliver invitations, sorting the flower arrangements, and now helping her choose a dress? She’s got me and Zabini wearing matching robes. This whole thing’s getting a bit out of hand.’

‘Why does she want _me_ to come?’ Albus had been frankly astounded when Scorpius revealed that Daphne had specifically invited both of them to come with her. He likes Scorpius’s aunt and thinks they get along pretty well, but they aren’t exactly close. ‘Be honest. Is it because we’re gay?’ 

And when Scorpius had admitted the answer was probably _yes,_ neither of them could decide how offended they should be by that.

‘This isn’t the _one,_ but it’s still fantastic,’ Daphne announces before the curtains of the dressing room have even opened. 

With her delicate features, long limbs and mane of gleaming chestnut hair, Scorpius’s aunt is icily beautiful in a way that seems to be required of a certain type of pureblood. But she hugs Scorpius tightly whenever she sees him and sweeps Albus up into fierce bear-hugs as well, and she’s treated him like family from the very first time they met. From the photographs he’s seen at Malfoy Manor, it’s clear that Daphne is the spitting image of Scorpius’s mother, and he knows that Scorpius adores her.

She emerges in something that is definitely a dress, definitely white, and there appears to be silk and lace involved, and – well, rarely has Albus felt so out of his depth. He can’t help but think that Grace and/or Zabini would have been much better suited to this occasion.

Daphne stands expectantly, hands on her hips. Scorpius bursts into rapturous agreement about how fantastic the dress is, and Albus nods along encouragingly, just as he has done for the last three. 

‘The lace is ugly,’ is the review from Elladora, Scorpius’s nine-year-old cousin. ‘What about the last one? That had a cape. Capes are better than lace.’ 

Daphne and her bridesmaid bicker about the lace, while the saleswitch watches them indulgently. The three of them eventually disappear together into the main body of the shop to find a dress that satisfies both mother and daughter. 

Once they’re out of earshot, Scorpius sighs theatrically and rests his head on Albus’s shoulder. ‘Can Daphne and Ella just agree on something, _please,_ and let us all go home.’

‘That might not happen in this lifetime.’

‘We could make a run for it. Steal a handful of floo powder, make our grand escape.’

‘We couldn’t go home. Our fireplace is out of use until five, remember. Routine maintenance. And I’m not apparating us anywhere. Your aunt is much too scary for that, and I –’ He realises that Scorpius is looking at him oddly, and the words fade. ‘What?’ 

Scorpius says, ‘You – you said _our_ fireplace.’

‘I – yeah. I suppose I did.’ Shit. It’s a small enough slip-up – not even a slip-up, really, just a word that came out wrong that neither of them needs to make a big deal out of. 

But Albus has been planning for weeks on asking Scorpius to move in with him, and something about the way Scorpius is watching him now is making his face heat. 

He tries to deflect with a generic, ‘Well, you do spend a lot of time at mine,’ but he suspects his airiness is not entirely convincing.

And Scorpius just makes the whole situation weirder by not saying anything, by just _watching_ Albus as if he expects him to say more.

Now is definitely the wrong time to do this. Albus had imagined a sweeter moment than this, perhaps something involving the kind of romantic gesture that didn’t come naturally to him but that he knew Scorpius would appreciate. He didn’t imagine being bamboozled into it by his own incorrect use of a pronoun. 

But like the fool that he is, he blunders on with, ‘I have been thinking about it. You could move in with me. If that’s something you want, too.’

Excruciatingly, Scorpius says nothing.

‘You don’t have to,’ Albus adds, his cheeks getting hotter by the moment. ‘We… Things are great as they are. We don’t need to mess with that. It’s fine.’

‘It’s not a _no.’_ Scorpius suddenly seems very interested in the tray of fabric samples on the table next to him. ‘We shouldn’t talk about it here.’

And Albus tries valiantly to show enthusiasm for the next three gowns that Daphne tries on, aware that Scorpius is avoiding his eye the whole time, and generally wishing the ground would swallow him up. 

‘Look, I shouldn’t’ve said anything,’ Albus tells him when they get home – _his_ home, singular. Albus’s. Not theirs. ‘I definitely shouldn’t have brought it up in the fucking bridal shop. It just sort of came out. Can we pretend it didn’t happen?’

‘It’s fine that it happened. There’s nothing wrong with you asking. I’m glad that you asked. And obviously I would like us to live together.’

Albus stares at him. ‘What?’

‘We should move in together.’

‘Well, why didn’t you say that earlier? Why have we spent all afternoon being weird with each other? Why are we still arguing about it?’

Scorpius runs a hand through his green hair. ‘It’s complicated.’

‘Okay.’ Albus tries to say it calmly. ‘Can you explain to me what’s complicated about it, because I’m really not following this right now.’

Scorpius looks at him for a moment, then mutters _‘Fuck’_ under his breath. Albus throws up his hands and goes into the kitchen to make an angry cup of tea. 

After steeping the shit out of some juniper tea and eating a few handfuls of cashews, Albus emerges from the kitchen feeling a little more reasonable. Scorpius looks like he’s pretending to read the _Daily Prophet,_ which he quickly rolls up as soon as he sees Albus again. 

'Sorry,' they say, almost in unison, followed by a chorus of 'No, it's fine - you don't have to - honestly -'

Then Scorpius blurts out, ‘I don’t want to work at Gringotts.’ 

‘Okay,’ Albus says slowly, completely thrown as to how this is relevant to what they were just arguing about, but deciding to proceed with caution. ‘Well, you shouldn’t accept the job, then.’

‘But it’s the sensible thing to do. It’s a good job.’

‘Not if you don’t want it. There will be other jobs.’

‘What if I –’ Scorpius hesitates. ‘What if I like the job I’ve already got. At Griffin’s Roost.’

Albus is rather taken aback by this, and he tries his best not to show it, because that will definitely send the wrong message. He knows Scorpius enjoys it there, likes chatting with customers, and helping Marya with her cakes and her accounts, and being exasperated but secretly pleased when Albus and Molly pop in to visit him. But he’d always given the impression it was a temporary gig, just a way of supporting himself while he was studying for his degree. 

‘Probably not forever,’ Scorpius continues. ‘But for now. It means I can still do bits of research on the side, and I can take some more time to figure out what I want to do.’

‘Well, that’s okay,’ Albus says carefully. 

‘I can’t afford to live here,’ Scorpius says in a rush, and Albus finally sees, just about, how all these thoughts connect together. ‘I know you own this house, and I don’t own anything, and I’m not in a position to buy anything, and I don’t really know where that leaves us. I’d be paying you rent, I suppose. Would that be weird? I don’t want things between us to be … unbalanced.’ 

Albus takes a moment before responding. He doesn’t know that much about Scorpius’s financial situation, in all honesty. He’s confident, however, that Draco Malfoy would give Scorpius the moon if he asked for it, and as he appears to own half of Wiltshire, a few galleons here and there certainly wouldn’t mean anything to him. But Albus respects Scorpius for not taking that option, even though he has it. 

Albus is hardly one to talk. A perk of his ridiculously famous, sickeningly successful parents is having one hell of a financial safety net. It’s not like he takes gold from his parents these days, not since he left Hogwarts and got a job of his own (and a comfortable Ministry one at that). But he knows what a luxury it is that he’s never had to worry about money. 

(Hell, James hasn’t worked in about a year, ever since his contract with the Chudley Cannons came to its unceremonious end, and he seems in no rush to find a job or adjust his lifestyle and expenditure accordingly.)

‘I would really love to live with you,’ Albus says, trying to collect his thoughts and present them in a way that won’t stress his already rattled boyfriend. ‘That can be here, or it can be somewhere else, or whatever works for both of us. And if we’re in different places with our careers, savings, mortgages, whatever – that doesn’t matter. Not to me, anyway. I mean, we should probably have a sensible, boring discussion about finances at some point. But I'm sure nothing we could talk about will make a difference to me.’

‘Okay.’ Scorpius looks mildly reassured.

Albus continues, ‘And if you don’t want any of these jobs you’re applying for, you should stop applying to them. You’ve got a job you enjoy and you’re making enough to support yourself. That’s not something to be sneered at.’

Scorpius is fiddling with the sleeve of his jumper. ‘My father won’t like it. He won’t say anything, but I know he won’t approve. And I’ll never hear the end of it from Grandmother.’

Albus can’t honestly imagine Draco disapproving of a single thing Scorpius did. Narcissa is a different story, but as she essentially disapproves of everything, that almost seems irrelevant. He tries for a bit of levity. ‘Well, it’ll make a change from her always going on about your hair. Mix things up a bit.’

That earns him a small smile from Scorpius. But then he says, ‘What about you?’

‘What _about_ me?’

‘You’re all high-flying and impressive. All Slytherin and ambitious.’

Albus is a little thrown by this. He’s used to thinking of himself and Scorpius as quite different people, but he’s never thought about it in these particular terms. It’s never occurred to him that it might be something Scorpius is insecure about. He clears his throat, trying not to trip over the words in a language that is so foreign to him – _sincerity._

‘Scorpius, you’re one of the most impressive people I know. Well, okay,’ he amends, ‘my dad did save the wizarding world, and became the master of death, and all that. But below that, on the tier of regular human achievement, you’re definitely up there. I’m proud of you. And I want you to do whatever makes you happy.’

‘Bloody hell, Al,’ Scorpius says quietly, but he’s grinning. ‘That was really nice of you.’

‘I can be nice, sometimes,’ he protests, eyebrow quirked. ‘Don’t get too used to it.’

*

Albus doesn’t enjoy labelling this sort of thing as a _dinner party,_ because he feels that sets unrealistic expectations. But it is dinner, and sort of a party. Grace insists the term makes them sound grown up; Molly points out it is merely accurate; and Albus is generally overruled. 

He’s provided the salmon and pea risotto, and Scorpius has made a positively sinful looking chocolate cake, covered with raspberries and a ganache you could drown in, which is decidedly _not_ a birthday cake. 

The fact that today marks twenty-five years since Molly Weasley’s birth is purely a coincidence. Molly has a strict no-celebrations policy. So technically they are celebrating that, as of this morning, the last box of Scorpius’s belongings has been moved from his flat in London to Albus’s – Albus _and_ Scorpius’s – house in York. 

‘We got you a present anyway,’ Grace says earnestly, holding a pink and orange spotted parcel towards Molly. ‘Were we not supposed to? I don’t understand the rules. Either way, well done for being born.’

‘I don’t believe I can take much of the credit, to be honest.’ Molly accepts the gift a touch gingerly, but she looks grudgingly pleased by the books inside (a Muggle paperback called _Girl, Woman, Other_ , and something emblazoned with the title _So You Want to Be a Gobstones Champion)._ She balls the wrapping paper up and throws it to Cicero, who barks happily and bats it around the living room in a frenzy.

By the time the risotto has been consumed – along with the baked asparagus, rocket salad and huge chunks of crusty bread with plenty of butter – Albus is starting to feel like the designated adult of the evening. He’s sticking to orange juice, while Molly’s drinking scotch and Grace and Zabini are notorious lightweights. Scorpius, it’s safe to say, is rather merry. His hand keeps drifting higher up Albus’s thigh and eventually, silently exasperated, Albus threads their fingers together, keeping their hands firmly in the gap between their chairs, because _one_ of them has to maintain some decorum.

‘A toast.’ Zabini raises his glass, wine sloshing a little. ‘To us finally getting rid of Malfoy.’

Scorpius looks wounded. ‘I know you’ll miss me really.’

‘Scorpius, I love you,’ Grace says, ‘but I’m confident I’ll love you a lot more now I don’t live with you. He leaves his socks _everywhere,’_ she tells Albus.

‘I do _not.’_

‘He steals all your clothes,’ Zabini joins in.

Albus knows that first-hand already; Scorpius has the decency to look a little sheepish.

‘He never takes the bins out –’

‘Useless if there’s a spider –’

‘Hogs all the shelves in the fridge –’

‘Takes suspiciously long showers –’

‘Happy Birthday, Molly,’ Scorpius says loudly. ‘Anyone for cake?’

After cake, and more drinks, and more cake – and after Molly, Grace and Zabini have disappeared to their respective homes – Albus is full and sleepy and cuddled up on the sofa with Scorpius. 

He’s unbuttoned his jeans (his second-biggest pair, which was possibly an oversight) and considering how much he’s given them to contend with tonight, it shouldn’t be a surprise that they’re feeling a little more snug than they did this morning. It’s a tad undignified, perhaps, but not embarrassing. It feels comfortable. Easy.

Scorpius has one arm around Albus’s shoulders, the other hand skimming the curve of his tummy. It’s not long before he’s absentmindedly unbuttoning his flannel shirt and nudging his t-shirt up and running his cool fingers over the warm skin of Albus’s lower belly. 

‘Fucking love your body, Al,’ he says easily. ‘You look so good.’

A tipsy Scorpius is often a complimentary Scorpius. Albus tries not to seem too pleased. ‘I look fat,’ he points out, mostly just to be difficult, because this is definitely not his most flattering angle.

Scorpius hums happily. ‘A bit.’ 

As if it's a natural segue, Scorpius then continues with, ‘I can’t believe I live in the _north_ now.’ He wrinkles his nose. 

‘You know Hogwarts is much further north than this, don’t you? And York is objectively better than London.’

‘Al. Don’t do that thing where you pretend to be a real northerner. You’re from _Devon._ You’re fooling no one.’

‘Hey, I’ve been working on my Yorkshire accent.’ 

Scorpius splutters. ‘I think it’s better for our relationship if I never have to hear that.’

‘Well, at least you’re making yourself useful.’ Albus shifts his position a little to allow Scorpius better access. He’s certainly not complaining about the attention. Scorpius gives excellent belly rubs, knows exactly what he’s doing, exactly what feels best. ‘Definitely a promising start to us living together.’ 

He can't see Scorpius's face properly from this angle, but he can feel him smiling. 'Well, I'll have to do my best to keep being useful to you, then.'


	3. Commitment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scorpius deals with a demanding bride. Albus looks in the mirror. Draco fails to share some news.

Albus is already in bed when he hears Scorpius clatter into the fireplace downstairs. He considers getting up to greet him, but he’s warm and comfortable and the world outside the bed is decidedly _not._ A few minutes later, Scorpius crawls in beside him, immediately pressing his body against Albus’s, throwing an arm over his middle, resting a muscled leg over Albus’s chubby ones.

‘So fucking cold,’ he says, by way of an explanation. 

‘Well, I’m glad to be of use,’ Albus says dryly, but he obligingly puts an arm around Scorpius and holds him more tightly, distributing the warmth as best he can.

‘Very useful,’ Scorpius agrees into Albus’s shoulder.

‘How are things coming along for the wedding? Still extremely low-key, I take it?’

Scorpius groans. ‘Aunt Daphne and I have very different definitions of _low-key.’_

When Daphne and Blaise had announced their nuptials two weeks ago, Scorpius had been rather honoured at being asked to help organise it, and optimistic about arranging a small get-together – in Blaise’s garden, just close friends and family, no fuss – in only a month. It was Daphne’s second wedding and Blaise’s third, so they were happy to keep things casual, they said. 

But things seem to have escalated quickly, and this isn’t the first time this week that Scorpius has returned home close to midnight. 

‘If we get married,’ Scorpius mutters, ‘let’s just elope. Avoid all this nonsense.’

Albus smiles in the dark, knowing Scorpius can’t see it. ‘I could live with that.’

Scorpius burrows a little closer into Albus’s side. ‘I’m holding you to that, Potter.’

*

‘Wedding update,’ Scorpius announces, flopping down onto the sofa next to Albus, who braces his cup of tea lest any of it spill. 

He says this fairly frequently, because Scorpius’s whole life currently revolves around this wedding, and he isn’t even the one getting married. 

‘My grandmother is going to be there after all. She’s ecstatic. And now she wants us all to go and get new robes together.’

Albus snorts. ‘How sweet. A little Malfoy family trip to Twilfitt and Tattings.’ 

‘Oh, no.’ Scorpius grins wickedly. ‘She expects you to come too.’

Albus almost chokes at the thought of his measurements being read out in a room full of willowy Malfoys. ‘Scorpius, with all due respect to your family, that is pretty much my nightmare.’ 

‘I’m sure I’d enjoy it.’ Scorpius waggles his eyebrows.

‘Because you’re an unspeakable pervert. Your father would be there. Your grandmother.’

Scorpius winces. ‘Point taken. I made our excuses, anyway, so you’re safe. Daphne already made me get new robes. Have you got robes?’

Albus definitely _owns_ dress robes. Three pairs, in fact, all different sizes. He says ‘Yup!’ a little too confidently, and changes the topic with, ‘So how did Narcissa manage to wheedle an invite out of Daphne and Blaise?’

‘My father’s taking her as his plus-one,’ Scorpius explains. ‘Because she insisted. And so he doesn’t have to make an excuse for not bringing an actual date, I expect.’

Scorpius seems to say it without thinking, and his face closes off for a moment. Albus watches him carefully. Even now, he very rarely talks about his mother, and alluding to his father dating again is closer than he usually gets to the subject. 

He hastily continues with, ‘My father was being weird again, actually. Kept talking about _having people over_ and _reconnecting with old friends._ Which he never does. He hates people. God knows who he would want to _connect_ with.’ He shakes his head in bewilderment. ‘So apparently being sociable is the latest stage of his midlife crisis.’ 

As Scorpius heads to the kitchen to make a cup of tea, continuing to speculate about his father, Albus’s mind drifts to the three pairs of dress robes in his wardrobe. 

He has the pair that still fitted him when he graduated Hogwarts – which he should just give to charity, honestly, because there’s not a chance in hell of him ever getting into those again. He’s got the pair he wore to Teddy and Victoire’s wedding, a couple of years newer than the first pair and about as many sizes bigger. Again, probably better for his self-esteem if he doesn’t try and squeeze himself into those anytime soon. 

And then there’s the pair he got about a year ago for an intimidatingly fancy work do at his boss’s house. He hasn’t tried them on yet, which he’s definitely not putting off doing, or anything. He will, and they’ll definitely fit, and there will be absolutely no problem.

*

There is absolutely no problem.

The robes fit.

Albus stands in front of the mirror, wondering if he’s somehow missed something. He’s not exactly swimming in them, and they’re possibly a little bit tighter than they were the last time he wore them, but he’s certainly not bursting out of them. The material isn’t straining anywhere, even as he checks and double checks along the widest part of his midriff, just to be sure. They look good. 

Dare he say it? _He_ looks good in them.

He looks fat in them too, of course, because his isn’t the sort of waistline that can be disguised with a bit of clever tailoring. He passed that point some time ago. And robes are hardly going to have any impact on his round cheeks or how soft his jawline is these days. 

He doesn’t exactly relish the idea of getting dressed up for fancy occasions. He’s been anxious about the wedding, a little bit, which has felt particularly churlish when he knows how important the day is to Scorpius. 

So it’s a relief to look in the mirror and feel like this. Feel okay about what’s staring back at him. To hope that, just maybe, he can worry about this a little less than he’d been planning to. 

*

One blustery weekend, Albus returns home after one of his walks by the Ouse with Molly and Cicero, just as he hears the _whoosh_ of green flames in the living room. 

‘Good timing,’ Scorpius says brightly, brushing soot from the front of his shirt. He gives Albus a peck on the cheek and sets a small pink box down on the coffee table.

‘How was work?’ Albus asks, inspecting the contents of the box, as Scorpius goes to hang his cloak up in the hall. Scorpius regularly brings home pastries from the café that won’t sell but are still good. Today’s offering is four fat doughnuts - two with yellow icing, one with curls of chocolate, one with sprinkles. Albus helps himself to a yellow one, hoping that it’s lemon.

‘Absolute chaos,’ Scorpius is saying, returning from the hall. ‘A pigeon got in. We spent half an hour trying to catch it and then had to disinfect everything –’ 

Albus has already taken a bite out of the doughnut – which is indeed filled with a delicious lemon curd – when he realises Scorpius has broken off his story about the pigeon and is looking at him oddly. 

His instinct is to panic, but he’s had personal growth, dammit, so instead he asks, ‘Everything okay?’ And if the pitch of his voice is a little higher than usual, that’s purely coincidental. 

‘Fine,’ Scorpius says quickly, looking a little awkward himself now. ‘I was just going to say, I won’t keep bringing cakes and stuff home, if you’d rather I didn’t.’

Albus glances at the doughnut in his hand and then back to Scorpius. ‘Do I look like I’d rather you hadn’t brought this home? Would _you_ rather you hadn’t? Do you think I shouldn’t be – I tried on my dress robes for the wedding, if that’s what you’re thinking, and they fit just fine –’

He realises he’s babbling, takes a deep breath, and determinedly diverts his self-conscious train of thought. For one thing, he’s a fucking adult and can eat a doughnut if he wants to. For another, Scorpius has absolutely never tried to make him feel bad for what he eats, so there’s no reason to jump to conclusions. 

He sets the doughnut back down in the box. ‘Sorry, you were saying?’

Scorpius sits down next to him on the sofa, curling his long legs up underneath him. He says, ‘I know you’ve been going on a lot of walks with Molly. And you quit drinking recently. So if you’re trying to achieve something specific –’ He pauses, then clarifies, ‘If you’re trying to lose weight, I want to be supportive of that. But if that’s not what you’re trying to do, I don’t want to suggest that you should be doing it.’

He manages to say it perfectly neutrally. Scorpius is good at talking about Albus’s weight in a way that doesn’t make it seem like a big deal, and Albus finds himself relaxing a little. 

It’s probably not accurate to say that he’s on a health kick, and he’s definitely not on a _diet_ or anything. The drinking thing is because he’s not convinced he actually likes alcohol that much - he’s just in the habit of drinking socially because it’s the thing that you do. He is trying to exercise a bit more, because it turns out it makes him feel good (who knew?). It’s not Scorpius-levels of working out, but he likes going for walks with Molly and Cicero, and he’s even been trying some yoga, because it’s exactly what his back needs after spending all day hunched over a desk. 

(Scorpius walked in on him recently in the middle of a slightly shaky Warrior I, and Albus had been fully prepared to find the whole thing mortifying. But Scorpius had stood there and blinked as though attempting to restart his brain, and they’d had really fantastic sex afterwards, so that had been rather encouraging.) 

He isn’t trying to lose weight, and he isn’t interested on stepping on a scale to find out whether he has. He’s trying to focus on doing things that make him feel good, and sometimes that’s taking a nice walk and sometimes it’s eating a nice piece of cake. 

He tries to find a way of explaining this to Scorpius that doesn’t make him sound pretentious. But in the end, he just says, ‘The doughnuts are fine. Better than fine. This one is completely fucking delicious, actually. I promise to never be mad at you for bringing any of Marya’s food home.’

Scorpius seems satisfied that this answer makes sense. He leans over for a kiss, his hand resting on the crest of Albus’s belly like it usually does.

Albus tells him, ‘Frankly, I’m more worried that if you ever get a job without free food, that’ll be it for us.’

Scorpius rolls his eyes. ‘My sides are _splitting_ from how funny you are, Al.’

Albus reaches for the remainder of the lemon doughnut, then pauses halfway as an uncomfortable thought occurs to him. Scorpius watches him, eyes bright and attentive, while Albus tries to find the right words for the uncertain jumble of thoughts in his head.

‘What if I did lose weight?’ he asks, then adds quickly, ‘Just hypothetically. I’m not trying to, or planning to. Honestly, it’s very, very unlikely to happen. But what if it did?’

Scorpius blinks at him. ‘What do you mean, _what if?_ What’s the question?’

‘Would it bother you?’ Albus asks. ‘Would it change anything?’

‘No,’ Scorpius says slowly, ‘and no. Why would it?’

‘Because of your little _preference.’_ Albus waves his hands demonstratively in the direction of himself. ‘For – you know. The _not-so-little.’_

Scorpius looks exasperated and fond all at once. ‘Al,’ he says. ‘Really?’

‘It's a fair question,’ Albus says, somewhat defensive. ‘I've never asked before, not properly.’ 

‘I like the way you look.’ Scorpius's touch is so familiar that it takes Albus a moment to realise that his hands have sneaked up his shirt. ‘If you lost weight or gained weight, I’d still think that. May I remind you that Hogwarts-era-me had a thing for Hogwarts-era-you, and you were skinny back then. All right,’ he amends, as Albus raises a sceptical eyebrow, ‘you were _skinnier._ Either way –’ his hands settle around Albus’s ribs where, sitting down like this, his sides crease into thick rolls – ‘you were really fucking cute, and you’re really fucking cute now.’

‘Well, all right then,’ Albus says, trying to sound dignified and not get distracted by Scorpius squeezing his sides in a way that feels far better than it has any right to. 

‘Also, for the record, I’m not just here because of how cute you are. You have some other good qualities as well. One or two, at least.’

Albus rolls his eyes. ‘Thank you. I feel so much better now.’

Scorpius gives him a teasing kiss, then says, ‘I’m off to the gym. Fancy joining me?’

‘God, no.’

Scorpius snorts and goes upstairs to grab his gym bag. Albus heads to the kitchen, sure he’s got a strawberry tea that will go beautifully with the rest of that doughnut. 

*

When the morning of the wedding dawns, Albus already knows that the best thing about the day is getting to see Scorpius in the robes his aunt picked out for him. They drape very nicely over his torso, nipped in at his narrow waist, and the effect of the silvery grey fabric is positively ethereal alongside his white-blond hair (returned to its natural colour for the day at Daphne’s insistence, even though Elladora had declared the green was cool). 

It might also be the worst thing about the day, however, because – _holy hell._ Albus has a variety of feelings about Scorpius in nicely tailored robes, and _dress robes_ is just taking that to a whole new level. 

‘Are you going to behave yourself today?’ Scorpius asks, eyebrow arched skyward, clearly aware that Albus is watching him with eyes like saucers behind his glasses. ‘My entire family will be there. Please bear that in mind.’

‘I’ll try. No promises.’

‘Pervert,’ Scorpius accuses fondly.

When they arrive at Blaise’s house, Grace and Zabini are already there, sorting through the floral decorations in the marquee that’s been erected in the garden. 

Grace squeals when she sees them and declares they’re ‘giving off Aragorn and Legolas vibes, but less gay’, which is a reference Albus doesn’t understand but chooses to take as a compliment. Zabini, disappointed by the strict dress code he’s expected to adhere to as best man, has compensated by wearing spectacular winged eyeliner that matches Grace’s. The four of them rush about putting the last-minute decorations in place, and while Scorpius and Zabini greet the guests as they start to arrive, Albus takes a seat with Grace towards the back of the marquee.

His heart pretty much leaps into his mouth when Scorpius’s grandmother sits decisively in the chair next to his.

‘Albus, darling, don’t you look dashing,’ Narcissa Malfoy trills, looking her usual formidable self in deep magenta robes and an almost embarrassing number of diamonds. 

She drowns out all his attempts to speak with conversational pearls such as ‘Who does Prentice Rowle think he’s fooling with that toupee? It looks like a shredded squirrel.’ and ‘Have you _seen_ Ariadne Zabini’s hat? Those stuffed turtledoves are so vulgar. I simply _must_ tell her how much I like it.’

Albus stammers out polite responses as best he can, until she says, ‘Has Draco arrived yet? Perhaps he’s avoiding me. Sneaking around with his paramour, possibly.’ Narcissa sniffs disapprovingly. ‘Hardly seemly for a man of his age to be _sneaking,_ but there you are.’

Albus glances at Grace, wide-eyed. She gives him a furrow-browed look in return. Narcissa seems blissfully unaware of her indiscretion, and as a voice calls for them all to stand for the arrival of the bride, Albus’s heart is pounding in his ears at the idea that Scorpius’s father is _dating_ someone, and that he’s pretty sure Scorpius has _no idea._

Scorpius might be the most beautiful thing about the day as far as Albus is concerned, but the ceremony is rather lovely too, the marquee twinkling with lights and flowers, Daphne looking radiant as she glides down the aisle on Scorpius’s arm, Elladora serenely bringing up the rear. Blaise – looking like an older, less flamboyant version of his son – looks as though he can’t believe his luck when Daphne joins him at the front of the hall. 

As the happy couple recite their vows, Narcissa Malfoy sighs wistfully, Grace links her arm affectionately through Albus’s, and Scorpius passes a sniffling Zabini a handkerchief.

After the ceremony, the assembled guests pour out of the marquee into the garden, and Albus drags Grace behind a large hydrangea bush.

‘What do we do?’ he hisses, while she sips the glass of champagne she somehow picked up along the way. ‘Scorpius’s dad? Dating? _Paramour?’_

‘There’s no need to repeat that word, Albus.’

‘How’s Scorpius going to feel? Probably not good. Almost definitely not good. He’s stressed enough about today as it is. This might send him over the edge.’

Grace says. ‘Whoever it is, they’re probably here, right? I think every Slytherin pureblood in Britain is here today.’

‘She might not be. Maybe he’s dating a Muggle. Or a Hufflepuff.’

‘And maybe I’ll be Minister for Magic. It could be her,’ Grace suggests, peering round the hydrangeas at a blonde witch with swan feathers in her hat. ‘Or her –’

‘Yes, I get the idea.’

‘– or _her._ She’s Blaise’s cousin, I think,’ Grace muses, indicating a witch with elegantly braided hair. ‘Claude’s terrified of her. Terrifying would fit the bill for Draco, don’t you think? He’s probably into that.’

Albus groans, rubbing a hand across his face, feeling wildly out of his depth. 

‘Potter,’ Grace says briskly, ‘our only job today is to look pretty and provide morale support for our boyfriends. So I’m going to help Claude re-apply his eyeliner, and you’re going to make sure Scorpius doesn’t find out that his dad is fucking one of the people in this garden.’

‘Bloody hell, Grace.’

Scorpius seems relieved when Albus finds him, dutifully mingling with the other guests outside the marquee. While Scorpius chats inanely with various relatives and friends of the family – all the old Slytherin pureblood families are very intertwined, almost making Albus feel better about his own co-dependent clan – Albus nods and smiles and laughs at the right moments, and gets Scorpius a top up for his drink whenever he looks like he needs it. 

When Scorpius’s father pops up out of the crowd, seeming to materialise before them out of nowhere, Albus tries to pretend that he hasn’t spent the last half-hour playing the disturbing mental game of _Are you Draco Malfoy’s type?_ with every witch over twenty and under sixty that he sees. 

‘Boys,’ Draco greets them. He’s wearing navy robes that were no doubt eye-wateringly expensive, and it’s the first time Albus has seen him since he shaved off his trademark goatee, making him look even more like Scorpius than he usually does.

(Albus tries not to focus on this last part too much, because developing weird feelings of attraction to his boyfriend’s dad is the last thing he needs in his life right now.) 

‘Nice to see you looking presentable for once, son,’ Draco says, nodding at his hair, and Scorpius rolls his eyes. 

Then, in a manner that appears to be some sort of genetic trait, Narcissa also appears as if out of nowhere, clutching the arm of a tall wizard with salt-and-pepper hair and a painfully polite expression, the kind Albus often finds himself wearing in Narcissa’s presence. 

Draco takes one look at the man and his mother and rather looks as though he would like to crumble into dust on the spot.

‘Scorpius, darling, you remember Theodore,’ Narcissa drawls, seemingly unaware of the effect she’s had on everyone around her. 

As comprehension dawns, Albus feels his face going red. Partly because this situation is positively farcical, and partly because he can’t believe he was being so … heteronormative.

There is an excruciatingly uncomfortable moment in which Scorpius looks between his father and the salt-and-pepper wizard with palpable bemusement. 

‘Of course,’ Scorpius says slowly. ‘Lovely to see you again. Er – have you met my boyfriend, Albus?’

Albus plasters on a smile and shakes Theodore Nott’s hand, because dear god, what _else_ is he supposed to do? 

‘Delighted,’ Nott says, looking as deeply uncomfortable as Albus feels. ‘I was at Hogwarts with your father, as it happens.’

‘Oh really?’ Albus says, as though people bringing up his famous father is a rare and pleasant occurrence. 

There is another excruciating pause. Albus glances at Scorpius. 

Nott glances at Draco. 

Draco opens his mouth and closes it again. 

Narcissa purses her lips. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake.’ 

Draco opens his mouth again, looking enormously flustered, and marches Nott and Narcissa away in a flurry of excuses about drinks and Daphne and needing to straighten his cravat.

‘Well, that was weird,’ Scorpius says.

‘Was it?’ Albus squeaks, hastily handing him another glass of butterbeer. 

Everything is fine throughout the wedding breakfast, where Albus avoids Draco’s eye and Narcissa complains about the quality of the napkins. Everything is fine throughout the speeches and toasts, where they all chuckle at Daphne’s anecdotes about Blaise and smile sympathetically when Zabini gets teary again during his best man’s speech.

So it comes as a shock to Albus when, later that evening, almost out of nowhere, Scorpius turns to him and gasps, ‘My father. And Theodore Nott. Theodore Nott and my _father.’_

Albus pats him on the back while he half-chokes on his drink.

‘Fucking _Merlin,’_ he exclaims. ‘Are they – no. You don’t think – he can’t be. Do you think they are?’ he asks, and Albus knows the game is up.

‘I think they might be,’ he says gently. 

‘There’s a chance my father’s been trying to tell me about this,’ Scorpius says, a little high-pitched. ‘And he’s really bad at explaining things and I’m really bad at understanding them. He’s been trying to tell me that he’s…’ He runs a hand through his hair. ‘That he’s dating again. Dating someone I used to call Uncle Theo when I was a kid, which is gonna take some getting used to –’

‘Scorpius.’ Albus takes hold of his hand and gives it a squeeze. 

‘I’m fine. Just a bit surprised. I wish he’d told me before tonight. He thought I would be upset,’ he says quietly. 

Albus squeezes his hand again. 

‘It’s great,’ he says, more evenly now, looking Albus in the eye, and Albus is relieved to find he believes him. ‘It’s brilliant. He – he’s been alone a long time. It’s been ten years. I want him to be happy.’

Albus wraps an arm around him and tugs him closer. Scorpius clings on tightly for a moment, taking a few deep breaths into Albus’s shoulder. 

Then he pulls away, gives Albus a quick kiss. ‘If my father isn’t slow-dancing with Uncle Theo by the end of the night, I’m disowning him,’ he declares, and he weaves through the huddles of wedding guests to talk to Draco.

As the sun goes down, the fairy-lights and candles cast a soft glow over the marquee. 

Grace and Zabini have taken Elladora under their wing and claimed the centre of the dancefloor; whatever moves the three of them are attempting to pull off seem to involve a lot of flailing. Narcissa is allowing herself to be steered around by a burly wizard young enough to be her grandson. Draco is distinctly _not_ dancing, but he’s deep in conversation with Theodore Nott, both of them a little flushed, their knees almost touching under the table.

Scorpius drains the remainder of the wine in his goblet. He plucks the glass of lime and soda from Albus’s own hand, stands up, and spins around to face him. With a flourishing gesture like a dueller casting a spell, he holds out a hand.

‘May I have this dance?’ 

Albus raises an eyebrow at him. ‘You’ve never seen me dance, have you? I hope you don’t think this is going to go well. Two left feet. Zero rhythm. Buckets of self-consciousness.’

‘I’m not asking you to _tango,_ Al. Come on. Just one.’ He stands with one hand on his hip, the other extended towards Albus, looking at him expectantly with wide grey eyes. 

Albus, mere mortal that he is, is helpless when faced with a look like that from Scorpius Malfoy. So he stands with a dramatic sigh and allows himself to be dragged towards the dancefloor.

Scorpius’s hands settle on either side of Albus’s waist, gentle, comfortable, like they belong there. His skin looks silvery in the pale glow of the candles, his hair like starlight. Albus slips his arms around Scorpius’s neck, and Scorpius tugs him a little closer, Albus’s round belly brushing against Scorpius’s flat one. They engage in the awkward swaying, shuffling motion that people who can’t dance try to pretend is dancing.

‘You look embarrassingly handsome tonight,’ Scorpius says. ‘Have I told you that?’

‘Not nearly often enough.’ Albus grins. ‘You don’t look half bad yourself.’

‘It’s the robes, isn’t it? You’re such a weirdo about robes, Al. Events like this must be unbearable for you, all these witches and wizards dressed up all smart.’

‘It’s not a _robes_ thing,’ Albus protests. ‘Just a you-in-robes thing.’

Scorpius is wearing one of those smiles that light up his whole face, the kind Albus adores, the kind he can’t look away from. Albus wants everything that he does in life to elicit that kind of reaction from Scorpius. Tonight, tomorrow, always.

He says, ‘I’m really quite fond of you, Malfoy.’

‘Why, thank you, Potter. As it happens, I’m really quite fond of you too.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did the wedding storyline only happen because I forgot how much I ship Draco/Nott and Daphne/Blaise and got overexcited? Maybe. I regret nothing.
> 
> Anyway, thanks so much for reading! And especially to anyone who’s left comments and kudos along the way, I love and appreciate you all <3


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